The clock strikes twelve
I spend two hours counting the number of hours in a poem.
Now it is two o’clock
One hour passes by as I try to figure out what to do next.
Then I spend two hours counting the number of hours in the poem.
Now it is five o’clock
One hour passes by as I try to figure out what to do next.
I sleep and eleven hours come and go in a click of a clock close by and broken.
Now it is five o’clock
Four hours pass by as I write the poem.
I sleep and eleven hours come and go in a click of a clock close by and broken.
Now it is eight o’clock
Four hours pass by as I write the poem.
Eight hours slowly pass as I read the unending poem.
Now it is eight o’clock
Three hours pass as I try to fix the tired, torn tool that travels through time.
Eight hours slowly pass as I read the unending poem.
Now it is seven o’clock
Three hours pass as I try to fix the tired, torn tool that travels through time.
The hour hand trudges along restlessly while nine hours pass as if it regrets being part of a clock.
Now it is seven o’clock
I meditate. Then I realize an hour went by so I go back an hour.
The hour hand trudges along restlessly while nine hours pass as if it regrets being part of a clock.
Ten hours pass as I try to look for the stealthy poem.
I meditate. Then I realize an hour went by so I go back an hour. Now it is two o’clock
Ten hours pass as I try to look for the stealthy poem.
The clock strikes twelve
He lays in wait, silently anticipating the rush of battle
sharpening his rusting orange blade
envious of his purposeful siblings.
He yearns for blood,
to burrow deep
within an
unsuspecting
host, to
have
a
Home
Can you tell me, dear pen, as I hold you in my hand.
Are you capable of taking me to a long forgotten land?
A cylindrical piece of plastic protecting a tube of ink,
or are you something greater, free to feel and think?
Should I do more with your unrelenting marks?
Tell the tales of warriors or monsters in the dark?
Some believe that you are mightier than a sword,
but I still mindlessly fiddle with you in the times that I am bored.
What are the possibilities? Are there infinite or none?
Should I treat you as what you seem or as a loaded gun?
My internal conversations have gone on for longer than I’d planned, My moral dilemma continues, as I hold you in my hand.
A poem
is like a can of Coke
The first pop when opening it Mhm, so satisfying
Then the drink itself, as you take sips at a time
Is immensely refreshing.
The can is eye-catching Simple, and timeless
A poem
is like a light flurry
The soft crunch under your feet
The little caress of your cheeks
The peace and quiet of the surroundings
Is like the immersion into a poem
A poem
is like an apple tree
Bearing fruit at the right time
Even if some of it may be hard to reach
It’s all the more satisfying when you do
To grasp the meaning.
Or the fruit, whichever
Or a poem, to some people
Is just blank.
A meaningless
chunk of words
Or just simply
too hard to understand.
Makes sense.
I mean
sometimes that’s me
Let them be as hard as stones
Always sturdy, standing tall
But still, and forever cold
I’d rather be a long river
Passive, with clear streams, like shiny ribbons
blowing in the wind
Rapids rushing towards the deep open sea
To have no control, following the path that has already been decided To relax, to just enjoy the ride
To be pushed and pulled by moon and sun
Or to be crashing over rocks, swirling tumbling in a panic
I’d rather be unbothered, and if
Then I am alone
Than to be around still and unfeeling stones
Where they are praised for their rigidity
By those who just watch
I’d rather let everything flow
Than attempt to find footing in the water
If I could carry out my path freely
I’d Rather be a long winding river
Paris, Oh Paris!
City of Light, “la Ville Lumière”
Most romantic city,
City of Love,
Most marvelous city in the entire world, Where bad days are cheered up, daydreaming of our perfect life together, what if reality was actually the fake, Where coffee, music, and bright lights All around the city can be found,
and the best frozen hot chocolate, can be found,
the beautiful Eiffel tower, surrounded with all different colors tulips during the spring,
summer,
waking up to
soft and gentle kisses,
and sounds of birds in the trees, chirping outside
outside the bedroom window, the beautiful city,
where couples
hold hands,
while taking romantic walks across the city.
Paris France,
the best city in the world.
Land of the free
They say
But people are more chained
Home of the brave
They say
But people are still afraid
This paradoxical paradigm
Compels me
To escape
So I board
The aircraft
“Welcome to Korea”
The root of my kinfolk
Significance of origin
Weight of my history
They flood
the inner workings
Of my soul.
An experience
not welcomed
back home
An invitation
Granted
Mere steps down
The diamonds of heritage
Embezzled in
the very land
Of which you feel
With the soles of your feet.
Eat
of the food.
Speak
with your people.
And remember,
Your identity.
Take the elevator
And reach the top,
Where the view lays sprawled
Before you.
Walk to the edge,
To the very, very edge.
Lean over,
And have a frightening
Thought,
One that you never
Expected to have.
I could jump.
Right now, I could jump.
Now hope to God
You ́re not crazy
To feel that way.
You ́re not.
The french have a saying for it.
L ́appel du vide.
The call of the void.
It beckons
For your body to
Take control.
But something jerks you back.
It’s your mind.
What a twisted way
To let you know you are
Grateful for the view.
The fish are content
In the small pond
Floating with nothing to do
In circles they go
To and fro
Gliding two by two
How funny they are,
They can’t go far
Stuck in obliviousness
Above on a rock
I sit and I watch
And start to become curious,
The breeze is warm
Shadows form
And the world awaits my return
It can keep waiting
Today I am staying
On my rock to watch the fish
Surrounding me are the monsters
The ones that pinch my cheeks
That dig their nails in
Leaving stained crimson on my face
Oblivious to the hot flush of my embarrassment Masked with obnoxious grins
They pose the grim question:
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
After an unsettling pause
My tongue pierces the toxic air
“Everything.”
Discordant cackles suffocate me
Roaring louder and louder
Escalating like a symphony
Soon they resume their cryptic conversations
While I sit lonely and stare at my feet
Dangling above the floor
Wondering where Mommy is
Why do they think of me as a fool for my absence of grey hair When we can simply all dance together?
Your scorns
Will dwindle into ashes
For the future belongs to me